


(Holi)day with you

by Pteropoda (SilentP)



Series: Winter Fic Exchanges! [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gift Fic, Holiday Themes, M/M, Other, lighthearted fluff, tformersgiftexchange2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentP/pseuds/Pteropoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two short pieces written for a gift exchange on tumblr, for user therisingdarkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therisingdarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=therisingdarkness).



> The prompt for this one: Swerve/Skids, mistletoe.

The entire bar groaned as Skids walked in.

He stopped short, taken aback by the wall of disappointed faces. “Well don’t all get up and hug me at once,” he said into the silence, but the crowd was already turning back to their drinks and conversations. Skids caught a few glancing back in his direction, but other than that, every mech in the place seemed to be ignoring that anything had happened.

Thoroughly baffled, Skids wound his way through the tables, aiming for the barstools at the front. Now that he was past the doorway, everything seemed to have returned abruptly to normal. Mechs nodded greetings as he passed or (in the case of Tailgate) waved them from all the way across the room, despite the chilly greeting. No one even tried to trip him as he walked by, the usual greeting for a mech who had gotten on the crew’s nerves. A quick sweep of the bar as he walked wasn’t very illuminating- now that he was beyond the doorway, most mechs seemed to be ignoring him in favor of glancing now and again toward the door.

It wasn’t the only change, either. The walls were decorated with entwined bits of foil and scrap metal, coiled into little rosettes that caught the light, and each table was adorned with a softly flickering cylinder, illuminating each table in a gentle glow.

“Skids! Old buddy old pal,” Swerve called cheerfully, as Skids slid into a seat by the tap. “What can I getcha?  Eggnog? Spiced wine? Candy canes? We’re having a special. Because it’s Christmas. Apparently it’s a celebration of snow, and some kind of hero who gives gifts with funny animals. No one’s really clear on that part, and Sunstreaker just growled at me when I tried to ask, but hey, it’s still a holiday.”

Skids tilted his helm. “Just Engex for me. Where’s this holiday from, anyway? I’ve never heard of it.”

Swerve shrugged. “It’s an Earth thing, apparently. Anyone who’s been to Earth says they go crazy over it. I borrowed a couple of food suggestions from anyone who remembered ‘em and mixed up some special drinks. You sure you don’t want any?” Swerve was reaching for a glass even as he wheedled. “I won’t even charge you the extra shanix for the theme.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Swerve pouted, but under Skids’ watchful optics, he mixed up a glass of Skids’ usual and slid it across the counter. Skids took up the drink as it was passed to him, and took one more look around the room as he sipped. “So where’s the remodeling come into this?”

“Oh, you mean the decorations?” Swerve shrugged. “According to tradition it’s supposed to be a bunch of dead plants in stands, but can you imagine that? They’d get knocked over in no time, and then someone’d use one as a club, and then where would we be? Without any decoration, that’s where. Besides, who wants organic stuff falling down on them all the time? This scrap works way better.”

“Huh.” Skids had to admit, the setup was rather pretty, even in the minimalistic fashion that kept it from being endangered by drunken patrons or Ultra Magnus’s attention. Speaking of… “So is that why everyone’s watching the door? Waiting for the showdown with Magnus?”

“Nah, he doesn’t bother coming around here anymore, and even if he does notice I got Rodimus ready to talk him out of it,” Swerve said with a grin. “Having friends in high places is the best. Just saying.”

“Well if that’s not it, then what’s with the cheerful greeting?” Skids asked, eying the doorway himself.

 “You mean you don’t remember getting the entire crew mad at you?” Swerve snorted.  

 “You’ve really gotta lay off that joke.”

“Forget about it,” Swerve retorted, and chuckled when Skids groaned. “But really, it’s nothin’ to do with you. It’s another part of the holiday. Humans must like ambushes, because they set up this thing called mistletoe, and you’ve got to kiss whoever’s under it. Neat, huh? We set up some over the door and now they’re waiting for two people to come in at once. Bar policy is if you wuss out you’re banned until I say otherwise.”

Skids shook his helm. “What happens if someone with a faceplate comes by? Or three come in at once?”

“We’ll figure it out when it happens,” Swerve said with a shrug. “We got Perceptor and Brainstorm earlier, would you believe it. I’m gonna send out holiday party invitations that say bring a friend. Except for Whirl. You’re exempt if you get stuck with Whirl.”

“And it’s only the door?” Skids said, twisting around to glance toward the entrance. “Sounds like you’re wasting plenty of opportunities, there.”

“What do you mean, wasting opportunities?” Swerve protested. “The lecture Ultra Magnus would give if he found anything in the halls would put _me_ to shame, even on the few rare times when I happen to be boring. Besides, there’s nowhere else in the bar it works. You’re not supposed to see it coming, otherwise you can choose who you want to kiss, and that’s avoiding the whole awkward point.”  

“You’re missing one above the bar,” Skids interjected with practiced ease, hooking a servo behind Swerve’s helm and pulling him in close.

Swerve, of course, had to get in the final word. “Only if you stay until closing,” he said, before leaning forward to press their lips together. The quick kiss became two, then three, again and again until they were so wrapped up in one another that they didn’t even hear the whole bar erupt into cheering.


	2. In the cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt: Drift/Ratchet, cuddles when it's cold out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timing for this one is sometime after Ratchet's confrontation with Pharma on the roof at Delphi, before the rusting problem has been fixed.

It was impossible to escape the cold.

It had been brutal outside in the snow, freezing until his every vent had left a thin layer of ice across his plating, but even inside the chill seeped into his frame, and no matter how hard Ratchet revved his engine, it felt too cold. It was probably psychosomatic, a result of the rust and the confrontation on the roof, but it didn’t stop him from revving his engine and tucking his plating close. First Aid and Ambulon were working on the counteragent for the rust, and all there was for him to do was wait.

‘You’ve done enough,’ they had told him, once they’d taken the vial from his grasp. Ratchet had huffed then, but obeyed, because his hands had been shaking and breaking that little beaker was the last thing he’d wanted to do. Now he regretted not insisting. Being forced to play assistant would still have been better than this intolerable wait.

His hands weren’t shaking any more, but he couldn’t feel them either. Ice in the joints, maybe. It certainly felt cold enough for it. The other option was that the rust had gotten to them.

Huffing again, he stared across the room. Pipes, still unconscious, was laid out on a berth. Rust had begun to accumulate beneath him, but he was relatively whole, and Ratchet was sure he would hold out until the remaining Delphi staff had sorted out their cure, all the better for having been unconscious for most of it. On the next berth, closer to Ratchet, Drift was lying still and quiet. As Ratchet watched, he twitched and shivered before settling again.

The rust had reached his helm, Ratchet observed, looking over Drift’s frame. They were dark and orange stained the housings, mottling the white of Drift’s faceplate and helm. It was disturbing, seeing them so dark.

As if sensing his gaze, Drift twitched again, and turned his helm blindly. “Hey, Ratchet?” he asked, his quiet voice echoing in the room.

“Yeah?” Ratchet answered, resetting his vocalizer with a cough when it came out as a rough growl. “What do you want, kid?”

“Uhm.” Drift squirmed in place, and Ratchet wondered at the way Drift’s zen-like composure only now seemed to waver. “Just checking. I wasn’t sure if you’d gone to help.” His optics were still dark, Ratchet noticed, even when Drift glanced in his direction. The connections must have rusted out. He studiously ignored thoughts of how close the rust now was to Drift’s processor.

“I’m not as sneaky as you,” Ratchet grumbled.  “And you’re a terrible liar. What is it, Drift?” The mech fidgeted even more, turning his dark optics away, and Ratchet huffed in irritation as he levered himself out of his seat with a creak of gears. “Just say it, already.”

Drift fidgeted again. “You went quiet,” he admitted. “So I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m not the one you need to worry about, kid,” Ratchet scoffed, tapping a knuckle against Drift’s helm sharply. “You pulled more crazy stunts than me today.”

“You pulled enough,” Drift retorted, but in the end he reached out, groping around until his fingertips made contact with Ratchet’s arm tapping Ratchet’s armplate. “But, uh, that wasn’t what I wanted to ask. Do you know what the temperature is? I think my internal thermometer is glitching…”

So it wasn’t just him. “It’s in acceptable ranges,” Ratchet answered, and as he watched Drift’s mouthplates thinned into an unhappy line. “It’s possible that your internal temperature regulation isn’t working, which means that something’s rusted through. Big surprise.”

“Is that dangerous?” Drift’s grip on his forearm tightened momentarily, another crack in the calm, cheerful mask that Drift usually maintained so well.

“Not unless it starts overworking,” Ratchet said honestly. “If your thermoregulation isn’t gauging properly, it will overcompensate and could fry something out, but it’s easily solved.” He gripped Drift’s pauldron and tugged it. “C’mon, shift it.”

Drift obediently sat up at Ratchet’s direction, but he stiffened in surprise when Ratchet hauled himself up onto the berth. “Ratch?” he asked, blindly seeking for Ratchet’s hands with his own as Ratchet slung an arm an arm around Drift’s shoulders and tugged him closer.

“It’ll keep your temperature in the right range, and it’s easier than digging out whatever equipment they have for it around here,” Ratchet grumbled.

If Drift had noticed the strength of Ratchet’s grip, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pressed closer, curling toward the warmth of Ratchet’s engine and settling in with a contented sigh.

This close, Ratchet could hear the quiet purr of Drift’s engine, and he revved his own in response. The spaces between them were slowly warming, driving away the phantom cold, and Ratchet settled himself more firmly. If he wasn’t going to work on the antidote, then the least he could do was to help his patient.


End file.
